


Even Killers Love Their Mamas

by Not_You



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Animal Feels, Animals, Attempted Kidnapping, Charles Being Concerned, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles You Slut, Charles went into marine biology this time, Coming Out, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, F/M, Getting Back Together, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, It came from my brain, Marine Mammals, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Polyamory Negotiations, Protective Erik, Sleeping Together, Telepathy, Whales, i just watched 'Blackfish' and noticed certain parallels, moira's ex beat her into a coma and she and charles both have feelings about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, Charles Xavier and Moira MacTaggert went into marine biology, and Erik found himself at loose ends after killing Shaw.  Now their paths are going to converge as they work against the capture of wild orcas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I totally just watched 'Blackfish,' and couldn't help but think of another really dangerous male animal whose troubles began with being taken from his mother. And this fic was born.

Marine biology is not supposed to be a field where one does this kind of thing and Charles isn’t some wild-eyed vegan undergrad, but he has to know what’s going on out here. The rumors are bad enough, and the truth is horrible. They really are just catching baby orcas for marine mammal parks, herding them with boats and a plane overhead, shattering the whole pod structure. Charles reels a little with deep, visceral horror, the desperation of the whales ringing in his head. There are no words, but feelings, complex and deep. There’s a… a _richness_ to the feelings of orcas. Charles is starting to suspect that they aren’t fully individual, that there’s a deeper collective identity. Their feelings are shared and amplified, and now the world is nothing but terror and sorrow and rage, the desperation of mothers faced with the abduction of their beloved children, the knowledge that this has happened before and will happen again, and through everything the heartbreak of separation.

Tears pour down Charles’s cheeks, but there’s nothing he can do. He can’t influence this many people. Just shielding himself, Moira, and this rented boat from the pilot of the plane and the men in the boats is going to give him a migraine. He can’t stop it, but he can’t turn away, either, and when he sees the boats turning away from the childless adults to follow the fleeing mothers, he and Moira turn as well. They can’t stop this hunt, but they are filming it. 

“Oh Jesus, Charles,” Moira whispers, sounding choked with horror even as she maneuvers past the rocks.

“I know.” He can’t stop this, but he will see it through. The world has to know about this, even if Charles isn’t sure how much more he can physically take. He will never forget the screaming in his head. The physical ache and the tearing agony in the hearts of the whales are becoming one thing, and he clutches at the rail to remain upright. They skim closer and closer, and Charles screams when the nets go out, because all the orcas are screaming too, mothers shrieking the little name chirps of their desperately struggling calves, the calves calling and calling for their mothers as they fight the nets, the water turning to white foam.

“Charles, Charles, I can’t do this!” Moira is sobbing, and then suddenly there’s a new note in the cacophony. Human, and so _angry_. Someone is out there in that churning water, and Charles can catch snatches of his thoughts over the noise. That this is what happened to him. That he has to help now, that his mother would want him to help. He misses her so much and the wounds in his psyche are burning now, the grief of the whales like filthy salt on raw flesh. There’s something about his knife, too, as it slashes the nets. Something about the metal, but Charles can’t be sure through the pain. And then Moira is wheeling to let fleeing whales pass, and the hunting boats are making tearing metal sounds as the plane circles to earth like a falling leaf, one wing crumpled and nearly useless. The orcas are swimming as fast as they can, still frightened but not hopeless anymore. The hunting boats limp away to recover the plane, moving slowly and erratically. They still don’t see Charles and Moira, so at least he won’t spend tomorrow in bed and eating painkillers like candy for nothing.

And then there’s a new stab of fear, sharp and exasperated. The man with the knife is tangled in the shredded nets. He’s slashing and slashing out, a fierce animal in a trap, but with his arms bent and partially held the way they are, there’s no way he’ll free his legs in time. It has already been over a minute, and Charles doesn’t think. He just jumps.

The man fights him at first, and Charles just slides into his mind, introducing himself and telling him that he’s here to help, to be calm and give him the knife. He does it without words, in emotions and pictures because his head is still ringing from contact with the orcas and he can’t quite find his words. The man gives him the knife, and soon they’re struggling to the surface, where it’s quiet enough that Charles can remember words, and can know that his new acquaintance is called Erik, that the jumble of feelings and sounds and tastes and memories that make a person are expressed by a name in human languages.

“You were in my head!” Erik yells, striking out as Charles holds him around the chest.

“Yes. Now calm your mind! Moira!” He waves a hand and Moira brings the boat over, helping them haul themselves up and over the side to collapse gasping in the bottom of the boat. After they’ve taken a moment to recover, Erik directs Moira to the tiny island where his few things are cached, and Charles passes out where he is, several steps beyond exhausted. He wakes up when Erik is bundling him into the back of Moira’s car, and he’s briefly disappointed to glimpse Erik in street clothes instead of the clinging black wetsuit before he’s out again.

The next time Charles opens his eyes, he’s disoriented all over again because he’s in his old room at the Westchester house. Erik is sitting beside the bed, reading Charles’s first book, the one on sexual aggression in dolphins. _Erik?_ Erik looks up so sharply that Charles realizes that he has forgotten to speak with his mouth again. “Sorry,” Charles croaks. “May I have some water and aspirin, please?”

Erik nods, producing the needed items and helping Charles sit up enough to hold the glass himself and drink like an adult. He drains it and swallows the pills, setting the glass aside and falling back with a groan. “How bloodshot are my eyes?” Charles asks.

“They’re seas of red with islands of brightest blue,” Erik tells him, and Charles smiles.

“That’s about what I thought. I’ll be down for the next two or three days. Is Moira all right?”

“She’s resting. One of us has been with you for most of this time, in case you woke up disoriented. Apparently that happens.”

“It does, but I feel all right this time. Well, for a given value of ‘all right’ that includes excruciating pain. I hope you’ve been comfortable.”

“Moira gave me a guest room.”

“Ah, wonderful.” Charles smiles up at him. “Stay as long as you like, Erik.”


	2. Chapter 2

The strangest thing to Erik is how they don’t press him for an explanation. They just let him have the run of the place. He could cut their throats in their sleep and have half the wealth in the place fenced before local law enforcement would even think to check in, and it doesn’t seem to matter. He spends the first night in the opulent guest room and wakes up to take Moira’s place at Charles’s bedside when her sleep deprivation catches up with her at last. He’s sure that now there will be questions, but she doesn’t ask him about anything. She just tells him to look after Charles and leaves him alone to smother or rape her friend. Erik of course does neither of these things, but how is she to know that? He paces the room, examining its many books before plucking one by Charles from the shelf. He hadn’t been completely surprised to learn that it had been Charles Xavier following hunting boats. The man has a bit of a reputation. Unlike a lot of people trying to Save the Whales, though, Charles seems to be perfectly aware that they can be vicious shits, which is refreshing. Erik isn’t particularly _surprised_ to learn about rape among dolphins, just slightly disappointed.

When Charles twitches and quietly snorts and wakes up at last, it’s a profound relief. Erik does his best to make him comfortable. When Moira comes in again, he’s expecting questions at last, but it still doesn’t happen. By the time Charles is awake and alert enough for the two of them to corner him in the kitchen, Erik is almost relieved. He was starting to get comfortable, for the first time in years.

“So, now that I’m up and we’re both rested, I suppose there’s time for you to explain yourself,” Charles says, sitting at the table with his cup of tea cradled in both hands. He’s wearing a blue bathrobe with yellow ducks on it, and Erik isn’t sure how a grown man can own such a thing let alone actually wear it.

“I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Some things, but I like to hear it from people in their own words. Besides, I’m not going to tell tales out of school.”

“She’s not...?”

“No, I’m not like you, and I’m not the pet dog, either.”

Erik pauses. “Sorry, Miss MacTaggert.”

“Doctor.”

Erik bows slightly. “Doctor MacTaggert. Marine biology as well?”

“Veternarian, specialization in cetaceans.”

“I see. I have no credentials.” He turns to Moira, because she’s the one who doesn’t know, and rolls up his sleeve. “Do you see?”

“…Oh.”

“I have another mission, but… they took me from my mother. I know how it feels.”

She blinks once and bites her lip in a way he recognizes. It’s one of the things a strong-willed woman does when she is determined not to let herself cry. “I see,” is all she says. Erik watches her for a long moment, expecting more. It doesn’t come. She just checks the coffee and finds it ready. “Cream or sugar?”

“Neither. Thank you.” She passes him the cup and their fingers don’t touch as he takes it. He is far too aware of that.

Somehow, this incredibly brief interview is enough for them. He just becomes part of the household as Charles writes and recovers and tries to figure out what to do with the film, and Moira takes consultant calls from zoos and aquariums and the detested marine mammal parks as well, answering the phone at any hour. It’s interesting to be surrounded by constructive purpose, instead of his long and lonely search for every other Nazi in the world now that Schmidt is dead. He helps them both find files and he runs errands for them and he keeps getting more and more disquietingly comfortable. Moira smiles at him when she runs into him in the kitchen in the mornings, and always pours him a cup of coffee if she has a pot brewed. It reminds him of his poor lost Magda, of how soothing it was to have a woman looking after him, to have someone he trusted and loved.

That alone is reason enough to flee into the night, but it’s only after a week and a half that Erik finds himself sleeping through the night without nightmares and actually cooking breakfast for these goddamn people and _sincerely hoping they enjoy it_. This is the worst thing that has happened to him in quite some time. He should be halfway to Argentina by now, picking up his own hunt again. He should be retrieving more Nazi gold or picking up a new gun, not standing here scrambling eggs for milk-fed academics. Erik does not belong in a warm, sunlit kitchen with two people who trust him wandering down to be fed.

“Good morning, Erik. Everything smells wonderful,” Charles says, and Moira smiles sleepily, pouring herself some coffee.

“Thanks for the jet fuel, too,” she says, and Erik shrugs, dividing the eggs onto three plates beside toast and fruit.

“I’ve never been able to get used to bacon,” he tells them, setting the plates on the table.

“Far be it from me to complain. Should we buy some chicken sausage the next time we get a chance?”

“If you like,” Erik says, and turns his attention to his plate, not wanting to meet Charles’s eyes. There’s some feeling in the air here, and Erik doesn’t know what it is. That makes him nervous, because for most of his life his survival has depended on that kind of knowledge.

Erik leaves in the night four days later. Against his better judgment, he actually leaves a note. It’s just his thanks for everything, but it still feels like too much. He creeps out while trying to ignore the feeling that Charles knows exactly what he’s doing and is letting him go. That can’t be right, so he ignores it. He also ignores whatever that feeling in his chest is that seems to tug back toward that ridiculous, sprawling mansion, that gilded cage keeping him away from the important thing. Within the week he’s back in South America, looking for the same prey as ever. He does not think about Charles, or Moira, or whales. But sometimes he dreams of deep water, and of warm arms around him.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning after Erik leaves, Moira is deeply irritated to find herself in tears. It would have been cliché to say that after Joe she would never cry again, but she has done her best to reserve it for truly terrible things. Erik’s departure should not count, and she bangs things around the kitchen as she makes tea. Moira always makes tea at times like this, and Charles knows better than to interfere. He always knows better than to interfere, and there’s a sudden flare of anger at that thought, because he really should have interfered back in grad school. It might not have kept her from going back home, but at least an attempt, or some jealousy or general shittiness or _something_ would have made it possible to come back to him in something besides their current capacity. It's usually so much easier to ignore, but emotions are raw today. Realizing her mistake had hurt, but it hadn't taken her so completely by surprise. She growls and slams the kettle onto the stove. 

“Moira…” Charles says softly from the kitchen doorway, and she rolls her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter, Charles. Get out.”

“…May I come back for tea?”

“No,” Moira snaps, and keeps her back to him until he leaves. She isn’t expecting Charles to actually stay away, and after drinking half the pot by herself, she relents and makes up a nice tray with biscuits and takes it up to the study. “Charles?” she asks, tapping on the door with one toe. A moment later, Charles opens the door and takes the tray from her, looking so wounded and shy that she groans, stepping in and shutting the door behind her. “Charles…”

“I just… it was your life, Moira. Always has been.”

“I know. Mine to live, mine to fuck up. I’m not really angry with you, Charles, just myself.” She settles into the armchair that Erik had staked out as his own during his time with them, and sighs. “Are we going to talk about it, Charles? At long bloody last?”

“…If you want to,” Charles says, meekly nibbling on one of the shortbread biscuits he likes so much.

Moira laughs. "I don't, but I think I need to.” One of the best things about Charles is that when he really needs to, he can shut up. Now is one of those moments. Moira takes a few deep breaths, and says, “See, Charles, leaving you was a terrible decision, and I knew that after about a day with Joe. But you’d been so decent about everything that I couldn’t go back. I hated myself for being such an idiot, and for being so weak. But I could only hate you for being too decent to try to control me. Which doesn’t make any sense. So even though I missed you, I couldn’t come back until you asked me to for professional reasons.” She sighs, and brushes a lock of hair out of her face. “I know the time is long past, and I’m grateful for how friendly you’ve been. How easy and comfortable despite everything.”

Charles stares down into his tea as the silence stretches out. “It hasn’t been easy, you know.” Moira looks up in real surprise. “I…” He stops and sighs, sounding frustrated. “May I?” He puts his fingers to his temple in that old familiar gesture, and she shifts her chair closer and leans in so he can rest the other hand on the side of her head in that way that seems to help him make contact. Moira will probably never be used to this, but the deep sharing possible with Charles fascinates her. Now he closes his eyes and she does the same. Behind her eyelids she sees herself from his point of view, her long legs and trim waist, the way she laughs and the exact color of her eyes. She recognizes this gaze, and has felt the same about him. She’s never quite sure how to project things, but she thinks about her feelings for Charles, banked but not extinguished, and how all right it is for him to know. He gasps, and she can feel the echo of it in her own lungs as they lean into a kiss that tastes like every day they have ever spent together, like early mornings and late nights and Charles’s godawful burnt toast and the rain the day they got caught in it and spent the storm kissing under an awning like the only two people on earth. It’s a kiss that changes everything, but they act the same as ever because they can’t afford to be distracted. 

There’s an anti-capture law coming up for a vote, and they need to present their findings. Charles has trimmed the footage of the hunt for Erik’s sake, but the worst of it is still there: the screaming, the orcas using a diversion in a last-ditch attempt to protect their young, and the desperate mothers outside the nets. They’ve already agreed that they’re going to claim ignorance on the escape, with a side of ‘defective nets.’ If worst comes to worst, Charles can suppress some of the hardest questions, but neither of them really feel good about that and it remains a last resort.

In the end, they don’t even need Charles’s powers. Between the footage and their findings on the brains of orcas, people are starting to go pale. Neither Moira nor Charles is naïve enough to suppose that the passage of this law would end the hunts, but it would be a good start. They wait for days for the vote to go through, and toast its victory with champagne, the excellent whiskey Charles has laid in for soul-shattering defeats going unopened another day.

The champagne does not start things. They've only had half a glass when they kiss for the first time since the day Erik left. Barely enough for flavor. Moira presses Charles back against the arm of the couch the way she always used to, and he whimpers into her mouth, tangling his hands in her hair and pressing up against her. There's a feeling like a wave breaking, and she can suddenly feel how much this means to Charles, how much he has missed holding her, missed her strength and her softness and her scent.

“Me too,” she says, even though he must already know, and kisses him again. They stay on the couch for a long time, and when they finally break away to carry the champagne up to Charles's room and finish things properly, they never actually stop touching each other, always at least one tentative hand on the other's arm, or gentle pressure all along one flank like the nervous and affectionate animals they are.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In comics canon, Moira's maiden name is Kinross, and she presents herself as a widow because the asshole won't give her a divorce. In this universe I've switched the names, so Moira is using her maiden name because her ex-husband is an utter shit and even if she can't get a legal divorce, she has divorced him in every way that matters.

Much as Charles misses Erik, truly having Moira back helps a lot. She always was the one that got away, and Charles is going to be grateful and not greedy. He dreams about Erik, but wakes to Moira every morning now. It's like the old days but infinitely better because both of them are wiser now.

Charles doesn't need telepathy to know that he and Moira are thinking the same thing. They have another research trip ahead of them, but they keep postponing it because they want to be where Erik left them in case he comes back. It doesn't seem likely at all. They've received a few blank postcards, each one from a different location, each one bearing the faintest telepathic fingerprints of Erik.

“Charles,” Moira says one night, the two of them sprawled out on the bed with the postcards fanned out like a winning poker hand, “can you feel him? I mean, not just that he sent these.”

“A little,” Charles mumbles where his head is resting on her thigh. “He misses us.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.”

“Anything else?”

“Not much. He's busy.” Charles hates to think about just what Erik is busy doing, and Moira sighs.

“I can't approve, but it's not as if I don't understand.”

Charles nods, remembering Erik's mother murmuring reassurances to her son until a bullet shut her up at last. “When I was first in his mind I felt it, all that pain and rage and those horrible memories double-locked in steel boxes. I don't know what I would be if I had suffered like that.” Moira shivers, and he wraps his arms around her waist, kissing its inward curve.

“It's strange to miss him like this, isn't it?”

“Probably.”

It's strange, but indisputable. Both of them are waiting for Erik. Not wanting to admit to it, just procrastinating with all their might and keeping an eye on the calendar and the news. Two old men who escaped Nuremberg turn up dead in Bolivia, and Charles dreams of greasy smoke and barbed wire. When Moira finally shakes him awake, he runs out of the room to vomit, clutching the toilet and trembling, feeling like his belly is full of ice. They don't talk about it, and they don't see any other signs of Erik for another month and a half. And then there's news of a marine mammal park's 'holding modules' somehow being torn open. Charles listens to baffled news anchors reading accounts of these metal boxes somehow exploding outward to the net pens. From there it was easy for persons unknown to slash the nets. Looking at the shredded metal, Charles beams with pride. It's neat work, controlled and to the point.

Moira comes wandering in the room in one of Charles's cardigans over nothing, her hair a glorious mess. “Is that...?”

“Erik's work, without a doubt.” The screen shows the blown metal again, and Moira grins.

“I could just kiss that boy.”

“Yes,” Charles says, “so could I.” The moment he says it he freezes, because he didn't mean to say it, and now that he's frozen, it can't be a joke.

“Charles?” Moira comes closer, frowning. “Are you all right?”

“Moira, I...” He feels a bit dizzy, and clutches at her arm. Charles is never sure who pushes closer, him or Moira, but somehow he ends up brow to brow with her, eyes closed and sharing his feelings for Erik, along with a heavy dose of reassurrance of his fidelity to her.

“Wow,” Moira says at last, voice wobbling a little. “I... I already felt like we were both waiting for him.” She finds a chair and sits down heavily, staring into space.

“Moira?” Charles hates how small and miserable his voice sounds.

“I'm just wrapping my mind around it, Charles. It actually makes a lot of sense.”

“...It does?” 

Moira laughs, and sends him little snapshots of memory. Charles blushes to see through her eyes just how much he had flirted with Erik during Erik's time with them. 

“So... you really don't mind, then?” he says at last, the memories trickling away.

“Charles, I married a man who beat me. It adjusted my priorities.”

Cold, killing rage goes through him the way it does any time he thinks of Joe Kinross, and he kneels at Moira's feet, looking up at her lovely face. There are no traces of Joe's work. No hint of the dark bruises, the burst vessels in her eyes. Charles had cried the first time he had seen Moira again, in a hospital room in Edinburgh. She hadn't been conscious to notice his presence, so at least he hadn't had to hide it from her. 

Charles takes a deep breath, working so hard to control himself as he gets to his feet that he doesn't see Moira stand as well, and jumps in surprise when she wraps her arms around him. “Easy, boyo,” she says softly. “That's all dead and gone now.” Charles whimpers and hides his face in her hair, nuzzling through the silky fall of it to press close to the reassuring pulse of her throat. “And this is why I love you, Charles, and why I don't care if you're not 'strictly AC' as the kids say these days.”

Charles has never felt more fortunate in his entire life. To have Moira in his arms again, to have her whole and sound after that terrifying blankness in Edinburgh... He shivers, and hugs her tightly, sending her wave after wave of his love, because words are nowhere near enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun is warm here, and soothes Erik's old injuries when they ache. His Spanish is very good and he really has no reason whatsoever to go north again. But something about Charles and Moira has thrown him off, has blown grit into the fine workings of Erik's vengeance. Schmidt is dead after all, and he was the one who killed Erik's mother. He was the one who tortured Erik. Erik finds himself thinking odd thoughts, wondering about all the others who have somehow just gone on, without killing even one of their tormentors. After all, by numbers alone Erik is the odd one. He wonders what makes the difference, as he lies in his hammock in the tropical night. Probably some inborn thing, leaving Erik a victim of his iron nature. He snorts, and wonders what Charles would say. Some hopeful shit, probably. All about neuroplasticity and changing behavioral patterns. Moira would probably just say that Erik is mad, but understandably so.

The next day, Erik finds a small item in the paper about a new law in the United States, making it illegal to catch or sell marine mammals for display. Orcas and the testimony of Professor Charles Xavier and Dr. Moira MacTaggert are both mentioned, and by the end of the day Erik is headed north. He keeps telling himself that he just wants to ensure his own security, and perhaps congratulate his only friends on their good work. Erik does not admit any other possibilities.

Erik heads up along the coast at a leisurely pace and spends a few weeks in Mexico when he gets there. There's no point in rushing, which is why he only flies to Florida. It's a long drive up the coast, but Erik likes being surrounded by metal, day in, day out. He likes the freedom of movement, and leaving the windows open so the wind can swirl around him like ocean currents.

There is a brief digression on his quest, however. When he first arrives in Miami he takes a day to walk around and learn something about this place he has never been. He tells himself he needs a rest, and that he is not further putting off seeing Charles and Moira again, because he is not nervous. The local fauna is lovely anyway, gleaming brown and white and freckled and golden curves in daring swimsuits. The girls all have flowing hair and flashing eyes as they run and laugh in the surf, except for one particularly beautiful creature with a magnificent afro. She's stretched out on a blanket and reading Mules And Men with a rapt, thoughtful expression that makes her look like Moira.

Erik lingers for a little while, but walks away before she can look up and see the creepy white man staring at her. It probably happens a lot. It's a perfect, clear-blue day, where the real height of the heavens is more evident than usual, and he wanders along the boardwalk and lets the warmth caress him. There are times he thinks he will never get the cold of winters in the camp out of his bones. He feels like stripping to his skin and curling up on the sand like a cat, and for a moment misses beaches in the south of France were he really could do that. And then metal intrudes itself upon his attention.

Erik stands and lets his powers flow outward, searching and finding. It's a vast box, somewhere just a little further up the coast. He has never felt anything quite like it, and can't help but follow his nose, fascinated by this rectangular prism of metal resting in the sea.

Uneasiness doesn't set in until Erik is much closer. It's one of those parks Moira hates so much, and Erik has bought a ticket almost before he knows what he's doing. The box is big, but it's not _that_ big, and he shudders to think of anything bigger than a seal or two spending much time there. He already looks a lot like the other men in the park. His open, short-sleeved shirt is pale blue rather than some garish Hawaiian pattern, and he has the decency not to wear socks with sandals, but in general he blends in quite well. Erik wanders around and takes in the sights like a real tourist, feeling like he's back on the hunt again.

He finally succeeds in finding the information he wants. There's a young girl who leads the orcas through their tricks, and Erik can be disarming when he wants to be. She tells him all about them, and mentions the module they spend the night in. Her gesture makes it horribly clear that this module is the metal box. Erik has spent time crammed into a metal box in the dark. It's all he can do to smile and thank the girl without giving away his horror.

Back at the hotel, Erik doesn't even pretend to argue with himself. When the park closes he makes his way there again, dodging security until he's as close to the module as he can get. There are faint squealing noises, and he realizes it's the creatures inside. He suddenly wishes Charles were here so much that it's painful, because he would know what they're saying. As it is, he feels for the walls of the structure, finding the gate to the water. Sure of that, he slips off his clothes to reveal the wetsuit beneath, and slides into the water. It hardly ripples, and he swims out and finds the net blocking this artificial lagoon from the open sea. Slicing it down one edge is a long task, and Erik's senses are tuned to an unbearable height, looking and listening for anyone who wants to interfere. But no one does, and at last Erik can haul himself out of the water and reach for the metal of the gate. He pulls and pulls, finally ripping the whole thing off and tearing a massive hole in the wall. It makes a loud noise and he has to get away before anyone comes to investigate, but he can see flashes of white in the dark water as the orcas swim away as fast as they can.


	6. Chapter 6

Moira greets Erik with a piercing scream and an orange to the head, but it's his own fault. What else can he expect a girl to do when she comes down to start the coffee only to find some hulking, shadowy man lurking in the corner? She's not awake enough to realize that it's Erik until after he curses in German and stands there rubbing his head.

 _Moira!_ Charles is wide awake in an instant, and she can feel his panic like an echo of three seconds ago.

“Good morning, Moira. I'm sorry to startle you.”

 _It's Erik. I'm all right, love._ She feels a wave of joy and relief in response. “Sorry for the ballistic fruit,” she says to Erik. “What are you doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you. Are you hungry?”

“Very, but I can cook.”

“As you like.” She starts the coffee, blinking when Erik takes a beer from the fridge instead.

“I'm still awake,” he says in answer to the expression on her face.

“Ah. Takes me right back to grad school.”

Erik chuckles, finding the old baked potatoes and grating them into a fluffy white pile. “I wish I had had more schooling, bored as I was with what I got.”

“As long as you know how to read, Erik, you can find out nearly anything you want to know.” It still gives her a pang of college-girl guilt to think of anyone's truncated education, but she knows she speaks the truth, and Erik smiles, melting butter in two skillets.

“Perhaps.”

“Erik!” Charles crows, thundering down the stairs in Moira's most feminine bathrobe. “It's so good to see you again, my friend!”

Erik looks a bit like a cat being hugged by a small child when Charles throws his arms around him, but he doesn't pull away and even hugs back a bit. “Hello, Charles. Congratulations on your successful lobbying.”

“Congratulations on Florida.”

Moira might be imagining it, but Erik seems to flush a little at Charles's words. “You heard about that?”

“Indeed.” Charles beams up at him and... and they really are lovely together. Moira is suddenly struck by how much she would like to see them kiss, and blushes enough for all three of them, turning to poke at the sizzling hashbrowns. “I thought it was a beautiful piece of work.”

“It was good to see them go free,” Erik says, slowly letting Charles out of his arms.

“I can only imagine. Is that a breakfast beer?”

“I'm still up,” Erik says, going to collect the bottle and take another long swig. Moira watches the long line of his throat, and wonders if Charles is doing the same.

Similar questions fill Moira's thoughts over the next two weeks as Erik settles in like he never left at all. He cooks for them and fixes Moira's rattletrap of a car and tightens up that wobbling bannister Charles is always forgetting to do anything about. Everything is so cozy and domestic that it's eerie, and Moira is pretty sure that the tension crackling between Charles and Erik will kill her. They just watch each other all the time, and watch her watching them in sidelong, guilty glances. The whole ridiculous situation makes her want to scream, and when Charles calls her by Erik's name in bed, she just laughs all the way through his frantic apologies.

“Charles,” she says over his babbling, “Charles, I know! It's all right!” He freezes, staring at her like he has never seen anything like her in his life. Moira smiles, and kisses him, rolling them over so Charles is pinned beneath her and can't easily escape. “As long as you still want me, it's all right.”

“I've never stopped, Moira, and I never will,” Charles says, so serious that it tamps down her amusement.

“I love you, Charles.” She leans down and kisses him, thinking, _And I think I love Erik, too._ She has gotten better at projecting to Charles, and she can feel the impact of her words on his mind. He gasps and clutches at her, tugging her hair in the way he only does when he forgets himself.

“Really?” Charles whispers when they part enough to speak.

“Really.”

They don't approach Erik that night, but the next day Charles suggests a run around the grounds. Moira is working on an article in her study, and watches from the window as their grey-clad backs vanish into the distance. They come back flushed and out of breath, and it's not just from the exercise. The flat, wary way Erik looks at her reminds her of a shark, and she just smiles at him. Moira and Charles both have a great deal of professional and personal experience with soothing large and dangerous animals, and they keep their peace and wait for Erik.

It takes three days and nights for Erik to come to them, like something from a fairytale. Three days of quiet sunlight and sea-colored eyes watching them, three nights lying wide awake beside each other, hands just touching in the dark. And then on the third night, the door cracks open and Erik slinks inside. There's just enough moonlight to see him creeping toward the bed, and Moira smiles. She sleeps nearest the door, and lifts the corner of the bedclothes. Erik stops, and then slides in beside her. She can feel him trembling through the undershirt and pajama bottoms he's wearing, and wraps her arms around him, pulling him to her warmth.

“Ssshh,” she murmurs. “You're welcome here.”

Erik relaxes slowly, and Charles chuckles from Moira's other side, reaching across her to give Erik's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Erik makes a small, helpless sound at that and hides his face in Moira's chest. She strokes his hair and soothes him for a long moment before pulling him up into their first kiss. Erik is tentative with her, gentle and shy and nothing like the rough, hungry memory Charles has shared with Moira. She smiles into his mouth and cuddles down between them, looking forward to the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to NoBrandHero for the beta. <3


End file.
